


Fourteen Days

by rabidsamfan



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: General
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 15:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fragments of what happened and what people were thinking between the time that Frodo and Sam fell unconscious at Mt. Doom and the time Sam wakes at the field of Cormallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before the Black Gate

******

And when Gandalf had clambered to the back of the Great Eagle and gone, Aragorn sent to Eomer and Imrahil to come to him for quick conference while the lesser Captains dealt with what was before their eyes.  "I did not foresee a victory on the field," he confessed quickly, "and did not plan for prisoners or wounded, and yet we have them both, as well as confused beasts and the Easterlings who still stand and fight."

"The Rohirrim press the Easterlings," Eomer said, "and my swiftest riders I will send, to seek aid from the White City."

"The sons of Lebennin have long dealt with crafty sea-raiders, and know how to prevent trickery," Imrahil offered.  "Turn them to the prisoners, and we will spare you every man we have with any skill at leechcraft."

"I cannot leave the fight so quickly," Aragorn protested.

"To leave one battle for another is no shame," Imrahil said, "I saw your skill in the Houses of Healing, and I for one would be glad to know that as many as possible of we who rode out in despair might return to live in hope."  Eomer nodded agreement, his eyes bright. 

And Aragorn smiled, for his heart wished most of all to turn to the healing of the many hurts around him.  "I will do what I can," he said, "and the sons of Elrond with me, for they learned the art at their father's knee.  But send for me if things go ill."

"Our great Enemy is destroyed, and his allies know the despair they fed us all these long days," Eomer declared, turning his horse back towards his men, "naught shall go ill."

"Ill enough if a wayward mumak steps on you as it flees!"  Aragorn called after him, but laughter was in his voice, and he turned at once to the disposition of the wounded, setting the Dunedain as a guard at the edges of the hill to turn aside the creatures who wandered confused, bereft of direction from Sauron.

Even as they set the wounded in rows and began to bind the wounds his laughter left him, for the nearest water was rank, and full of dead orcs, and the herbs which the sons of Elrond had brought with them from the north had been sadly depleted after the battle of Pelennor Fields.  He had a fire made to boil what water there was, and set the last crumbling leaf of athelas in it, near the center of his charges, and the scent of new-turned earth for a while overwhelmed the smell of other things.

Gimli came with Pippin in his arms, and Beregond of the Guard stumbled behind him, purblind from a heavy blow to the head.  Aragon finished what he was doing and hurried over, for the hobbit was unconscious and covered in black blood.

"I found him under a troll!" Gimli's tears ran into his beard. 

"Here, give him to me," Aragorn said, taking Pippin and easing him down onto a clear patch of ground.  He felt along the hobbit's bones, grimacing when ribs moved wrongly under his touch.  There was a bad bruise above Pippin's left ear as well, and Aragorn was still seeking out other injuries when he heard Beregond exclaim with dismay.  "Bergil!"

Aragorn glanced up.  A boy on a horse was picking his way carefully up the hill.  His father swayed uncertainly, still too dazed to go and meet him.  "Why have you come here? You are meant to be running errands for the Healers!"

"Please, sir," the child answered nervously.  "I _am_ running an errand for the Healers.  Ioreth sent me with Damrod, to see if it truly was there and then his wounds overcame him and I had to go on alone, but the horse wouldn't go and I couldn't make it go, and then it would and here I am, and I would have come faster but there were things running away and I had to go around them." 

"But why should she send you out of the city?"  Beregond said, pale at the thought of all that might have befallen his young son.

"To bring it to Lord Aragorn, in case he needed it, except it was Damrod who was meant to come the rest of the way, and I was only to make sure that it was right, first, because Ioreth is too old to come and has too much to do."

"To bring what?" Aragorn asked, hearing his name, and sparing more of his attention for the boy because of it.

"This, my lord," Bergil said, beginning to tug at the knot which held the brown pillow he had tied behind the saddle.  "The _athelas._"  I would have brought more, but this was all that would fit."

"Athelas!"  Aragorn's eyes lit with gladness.  "Bring it, quickly, and tell me where you found it.  There's more you say?"

Bergil was rather startled to find himself and his bundle parted from the horse by Legolas and Gimli, and more startled to be standing next to the king, looking down at Pippin's blood-covered face, but his time in the House of Healing had hardened him to worse sights and he remembered his voice and the question he'd been asked.

"We found it in a dell, near a birchwood by the Fields of Cormallen.  I didn't bring a tithe of what we saw, and the dell turns and follows the water, and there was athelas growing all that way; much more than in the woods where Ioreth and I looked for it.  Damrod's still there, waiting for me."

Aragorn was listening, but his hands were busy, and he plucked a leaf from the sack and crushed it under Pippin's nose.  "Sleep, Pippin," he commanded.  "Sleep and heal until I can come to you again."  The scent of warm brown ale rose around them, and Pippin smiled a little, relaxing into a healing slumber.   Aragorn leaned back on his heels and smiled at the boy who had come so far.  "I've much to do, and thanks to you, the herb I know best to do it with.  Sit here and wait by Pippin and your father until I can spare a rider to take you back to Damrod."

"And it please you, sir, I'd rather stand," Bergil said, and blushed, shifting his feet uncomfortably.  "I didn't dare get off the horse, because I couldn't get back on again, and that was yesterday, and I can wait a long time before I have to ride again."

Gimli gave a great shout of laughter, clapping the boy on the shoulder.  "You and me both, lad!  Horses are meant for the tall!  But take heart.  I've still some liniment in my bag that will ease your pains, gifted me by the White Maiden of Rohan when first we came to Edoras."

At that Legolas laughed as well, and Aragorn too, even as he turned to the next wounded man. With _athelas_ in hand, and even a little fresh water to brew it in, his strength would go much farther, and he hoarded it less, sending away pain and calling sleep, while Elladan and Elrohir went ahead, setting bones and washing and binding wounds.  And yet as he worked he was careful not to press himself too hard – and his eyes went often up and to the southwest, but Mt. Doom was throwing out great bouts of flame and smoke, and he could not make out any details.

More than an hour had passed before Legolas straightened from his labors and tensed as his gaze went toward the distant flame of the mountain.  "They're coming," he said,  "Aragorn!"

"Did they find them?"  Aragorn asked, "Can you tell?"

"Gandalf rides on Gwaihir; but he rides alone, and Gwaihir's talons are empty.  Behind him comes Meneldor,"  Legolas shielded his eyes, "His foot is curled around a burden, and he flies carefully.  And there is Landroval, laden like his brother."

"Didn't Lord Faramir say that Gollum went with Frodo and Sam?"  Gimli asked softly, coming to stand by Aragorn.  "Which two has Gandalf found of the three, I wonder?"

"Are they moving?" Aragorn called to Legolas.  "Can you tell?"

"Nay," Legolas shook his head.  "They are hidden from my sight.  But if they were well they would ride astride like Gandalf, and not be carried."

"Make a space at the top of the hill!" Aragorn commanded.  "Prepare two places there!  Gimli, Legolas, call me when I must come!"    Ten minutes at least he guessed he had before the Eagles would arrive, and there was still much to do.  But only three more men did he send to slumber before Legolas summoned him.  Checking to be sure that the bag of _athelas_ was still secure at his belt before he ran, Aragon made his way full hastily to the crest of the battle hill.

He got there as the first of the Eagles swooped down, to hover over Legolas and uncurl his talon, gently dropping a small bloody figure into the elf's waiting arms.  Aragorn turned and braced as Legolas knelt to the waiting pallets, and raised his arms as the second wanderer was delivered to him.

Light as a child, filthy as a sweep, and stinking; the orc-garb felt strange under Aragorn's hand, but even under the dirt he recognized the Ringbearer.  "Frodo!" he called, as he too knelt, nearer to weeping than he had been in hours.  Frodo was still, and his lips were cracked and blue under black soot.

"Sam," Legolas cried, shaking his own burden gently. "Breathe, Sam!"

"Are they dead?" someone asked among the watchers who had gathered palefaced near the hilltop.

"Dead hobbits don't bleed," Gimli said gruffly, taking Sam from Legolas and laying him on the ground with his head tilted back. "Like this, Aragorn.  You've got to get the bad air out and good air in!"  He took a deep breath and puffed it straight into Sam's mouth, pinching the hobbit's nose shut.  Then he pressed gently down on Sam's chest to push out the air before he gave him another breath.

Aragorn quickly followed Gimli's example, and it seemed to him that Frodo warmed a little with each breath, but it was only the slow blood brightening on the hobbit's hand that told him his work was doing any good. 

"I'll breathe for Frodo," Legolas said, shifting position to come alongside Aragorn.  "You call them back, Elessar.  Yours is a voice they might hear."

So Aragorn knelt between the pallets and broke two leaves of _athelas_, wondering suddenly how they could smell the good sweet scent of it with Gimli and Legolas pinching their noses shut.

"Chew it, and then breathe for them," Gandalf suggested, kneeling opposite Aragorn.  "And I will call."

First a breath for Frodo, fresh cut grass and garden flowers, and then another leaf for Sam:  strawberries, fried potatoes and beer, so warm and homely that Aragorn had to swallow before he could blow the scent into the waiting hobbit.   Sam began to cough, and Gimli beamed, turning him on his side so that he wouldn't choke on the black spittle that came out of him.

Aragorn turned again, but Frodo was breathing on his own, however shallowly, and the blue was fading from his face.

"Call them," Gandalf said.  "But do not tell them to rest yet.  Frodo would seek a deeper sleep than he would waken from, and to lose him is to lose Sam.  They have gone deep into the Shadow, and though it is fled, the stain is upon them still."  He gathered his staff and rose, as Aragorn moved forward to put his hands on the hobbit's foreheads.  "There are beasts Sauron had bespelled wandering in Mordor -- not least of them the mounts of the Black Riders -- that the Eagles and I must deal with ere they breed, but I will return as soon as I can."

Aragorn nodded, bending his head to his charges before Gandalf even called for Shadowfax.  Long hours passed, and still each moment was a battle.  He could not fully concentrate on either Sam or Frodo, for when he tried the other would slip softly into deeper darkness. 

Vaguely he was aware of Gimli and Legolas, stripping off Frodo's orc leathers, and Sam's tattered clothing, washing away blood and binding wounds.  Frodo's hand, where a finger had been torn out by the root, told a story that Aragorn dare not dwell on, but he allowed a corner of himself to wonder about the way their hands and knees bespoke of distances crawled, and where Frodo got the half healed scar on his neck, or Sam the deep gash on his head, and how had Sam managed to tear the backs of his hands and not only the palms?  How close had the fire come to them, to leave them both with skin red and taut, and the scent of burning in their hair?  They both were thinner than ever he had thought hobbits could be – almost Gollum thin -- and that too was a thought he set aside where it could not be seen.

There was no strength left in either of them, that was the trouble, and no food or water either.  Aragorn roused himself from his trance enough to tell Legolas that, but when Gimli tried to pour a little water into Sam it came back up again, black with filth and choking.  They tried more carefully with Frodo, wetting a cloth and pressing it to his lips, and so getting a little in at a time.  Sam was drier, or had swallowed more dirt, and nothing would stay in him until Elrohir came with a flask of the _miruvor_ of Imladris and gave him a mouthful drop by drop. 

Elrohir turned his attention then to Frodo, and confirmed Aragorn's words to Legolas and Gimli. "The Ringbearer, especially, has the look of one who has gone far on _lembas_ alone, but its virtue does not last for much more than a day, and I would think that Samwise has had none to eat for at least three.  And then there is the matter of water."  He took a fold of Frodo's skin, and raised it; it stayed up, slumping back too slowly.  "If you would have my advice, I would say that you must get water into them before you can try to give them food."

"How much _miruvor_ is there?"  Gimli asked. 

"Seven mouthfuls, no more."  Elrohir said.  "But were there barrels near at hand they would not solve the problem.  Its virtue is not the virtue of food.  It gives strength of limb and heart for a time but is barely more than water for the healing of wounds."  He dripped a bit more into Frodo's mouth, and sat back. "Still, I think it will give you time to get better things into them."

"Water and battle bread are all we have," Legolas said.  "And not much of either, for I am loth to use the waters of the swamp, even to wash the stink of Mordor from them."

"Aye," Gimli agreed.  "Better water ten days in the cask than waters befouled by orcs and trolls," he said, settling again to the task of getting the water he had into Samwise.

Of all these words, Aragorn heard but little.  He was seeing with an inner eye, and it seemed to him that Sam had found some strength, and so had set himself to protect Frodo against all comers, as he had on Weathertop long ago.  He was slow to recognize Elessar as Strider, but the memory of that earlier time gave the King a way to reach the gardener's heart.  "I brought him healing before, Sam.  And I will again if you will let me," Aragorn promised, and Sam in his weariness and fear for Frodo consented, lingering nearby and watchful for treachery. 

In Frodo Aragorn found the heat of the cordial still bright, and for the first time a glimmering of more in Frodo's mind than the longing for rest.   Aragorn crushed more _athelas _and tried to find the key to keeping Frodo alive.  Aragorn's heart warned him against assuring Frodo that his tasks were complete.  Even in sleep the Ringbearer sought a deeper rest.  Why should he stay?  "Sam's here too." Aragorn said at last. "You must stay, if he's to see the Shire again."  And that woke a homesickness that Aragorn could taste and see, so strong that he could build a new hope where all hope had fled.  "Sleep and heal, and you shall see the Shire again," he promised.  And Frodo sighed, and slept, and the pain left him for a little.

And still Sam would not rest, the cordial having given him strength to fight.  He resisted Aragorn's blandishments and commands, holding stubbornly to his pain and his determination to guard Frodo until Legolas thought to put Frodo's unhurt hand in Sam's.  Then did Sam sleep too, and Aragorn at last could relax and open his eyes to find the day long fled and torches burning around them. 

Gandalf was in conference with Gimli, but he turned to smile at Aragorn.  "Well done, Elessar.  I will keep watch on them while you eat and rest.  Legolas and Gimli know all that I have discovered."  He settled by the two sleeping hobbits, resting a hand on each small head, and closed his eyes, and Aragorn knew that the Wizard was seeing more and more clearly than he could himself.

"Well?" Gimli asked.  "How are they?"

"We may have to bury them yet," Aragorn confessed. "They are very tired, and it will be long before I am sure of them.  But for now they are sleeping."  He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched his spine, easing the stiffness of too many hours in one position.  "Thank you, Gimli, for your lore – I did not know that you were a healer."

"If you delve deep in the earth you needs must learn to deal with bad air," Gimli said blushing, "but it is not often a skill you need upon a battlefield.  Your elvish arts serve better."

"I marvel that they survived to come to us with that poison in them" Aragorn admitted. 

"Time did not pass for them, from the time they were found until they were delivered to us," Legolas said.  "Gandalf said the Eagles held it at bay."  He tucked the elven cloak he had taken from his shoulders more carefully over the sleeping hobbits.

"Ah," said Aragorn, and closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his body sway with weariness.

"Come, Aragorn," Legolas said, rising and offering a hand.  "Food and rest, Gandalf said, and while you eat much to think on."

"Yes," Gimli agreed, coming to support the Man when he stumbled on feet gone numb.  "And a stop to see how Pippin fares, if you don't mind.  Our poor Hobbits have none of them come through this safely."

Pippin was awake, and trying not to look too miserable for the sake of Bergil, who lay beside him on his stomach, sleepily rehearsing the lines of a Gondorrian song Pippin had asked to learn.  The boy struggled upright when he realized Aragorn had come, yielding his place with a hasty bow.

"Strider?" Pippin's brow was creased with worry.  "They said you were taking care of Frodo and Sam.  Are they badly hurt?"

"Gandalf is with them while I rest," Aragorn told Pippin.  "They are sleeping, as you should be."

"I hurt too much to sleep," Pippin fretted.  "I think I must've broken something when the troll fell on me.  Were there really eagles?"

"Yes, there were Eagles," Aragorn reached into the bag at his waist and discovered that he'd gone through a healthy portion of the _athelas_ already.  But there was still a good bit left, and he cracked a leaf under Pippin's nose, where it filled the night with the soft scent of pipeweed.  "Sleep a little more, Pippin; there will be time to hear all the stories later."

"But I'm thirsty," Pippin protested around a yawn, closing his eyes and falling under the spell.

"As are many," Aragorn realized, looking around with a Captain's eye.  It fell on Bergil, and an idea came to him.  "Legolas, can you and Arod make a ride tonight?"

"Of course," said Legolas, "to Minas Tirith?"

"No; to find Damrod and return Bergil to him, but also to see if there is a place suitable nearer the dell of _athelas_ for us to set up a camp.  We cannot keep the wounded or the prisoners in these stricken lands, and if it is not too far, we shall have the prisoners carry the wounded, ours and theirs, to a safer place, come dawn; but I need a camp where I can send out men at need if Rohan or Dol Amroth require, and still have water and wood." 


	2. To the Field of Cormallen

It was all of forty miles to the Fields of Cormallen, and messengers were sent to the city, to ask for supplies to be sent, blankets, food and Merry most of all, to keep Pippin company and be on hand for consultation about the needs of hobbits.

Spears, beheaded of their points and wound with blankets and cloaks, became stretchers and the Southrons and Easterlings who had surrendered spaced through the line, so that they could switch bearers as often as need be.  They were confused to find their own wounded on stretchers too, and Aragorn saw the puzzlement on their faces as he and Elrond's sons made sure that every injured man was comfortable before the march began.  He spoke to them in their own languages, and reassured them that they were not being driven into lifelong servitude, but only to a better camp with water until such time as their fellows were strong enough to go home with them.

Hardest to bring were Sam and Frodo, since they could not be left to ride on the stretchers alone.  Aragorn had to stay in trance with them, or lose what ground he had gained.   He had a drag rigged to a horse, big enough for all three, and lay between the hobbits while Gimli walked alongside. They could not make any speed.  When they first moved them, Sam had another fit of coughing that wrung him like a rag, and to Aragorn's relief, Frodo echoed it this time, and breathed the deeper for it once the fit was over.  A few precious drops of the _miruvor_ got them the first four miles, and _athelas_ and willpower another two to the last camp at the edge of the barrenlands before Aragorn was forced to stop and rest a little.  They got some more water into each of the hobbits, careful this time not to go too quickly, and Aragorn had some gruel made up of fresh water with bread boiled in it, not only for Frodo and Sam, but for others of the worst wounded. 

"It's like feeding an orphaned cub," Legolas said, when Gimli would have tried to get more food into Frodo.  "Little and often, until they have the strength for more.  Would we had fresh milk to give them!"

"There must be some mares among all the horses," Aragorn said, watching his patients warily as he wolfed down some bread and dried fruit.  "And perhaps one or two in milk, since Rohan rode to war so hastily.  And we can ask for a goat or two, from Minas Tirith." 

"I'll see to it," Legolas promised.  "How are you faring, Elessar?"

"Their dreams are evil," Aragorn admitted, "full of pain and thirst, hunger and weariness."  He sighed.  "And I will be glad when we have water enough to wash the stink of Mordor from them."

"Half a league," Legolas said, "till you come to the nearest stream.  As soon as all the tents and things are gathered we can start for it."

"Nay, Gimli and I will start now, with one or two to guard us, and the rest can follow -- they will not need to stop as often."  He lay between the Ringbearers again, resting his hands against their hearts.  "We cannot tarry, Legolas.  Frodo and Sam must learn that they are not still on the shoulder of Orodruin, and I have not yet convinced them.  Clean water might."

****

"I feel that I have spent all of my time and strength on Sam and Frodo.  I haven't seen Pippin more than once a day, and there are others who could use my skills," Aragorn fretted, able to give in to weariness with only Gandalf there to witness his frustration. 

"But there is no one else who has the power to keep the Ringbearers alive," Gandalf pointed out.  "Even my arts are not as suited to this task as yours.  Besides, none of the wounded are in as bad a case as they, and even the most distraught of shieldmates knows it as soon as he sees them."  He finished cleaning Frodo's face and set the towel aside.  "Elladan and Elrohir see to the others, and healers from Minas Anor will come soon."

"At least they're getting stronger," Aragorn said, smiling down at the two sleepers.  "I might dare leave one sleeping while I tend the other now, and I could not risk that even a day since."

"And I am here now, and can watch them for a little, while you rest," Gandalf said.   

******

Aragorn made sure that Frodo was sleeping well, and that Legolas knew what to look for if anything changed, and then gathered Sam into his arms, to try a full trance with the younger hobbit first.  He calmed his breath, bethinking himself of the very first time he saw the small gardener.  Bree, in the Prancing Pony, that was it, chatting about marrows with a Bree hobbit whilst sitting between Frodo and the rest of the room until the beer and food had warmed him. 

But no, there had been a moment still earlier, when Strider had seen a small figure on a Shire pony, gazing after Tom Bombadil with a light in his eye, and already wistful for the comforts of home.  Aragorn hadn't known one of the travelers from another, but Sam had struck him even then as different from the other three.  It wasn't a matter of velvet waistcoats, but more a sense that Sam alone of the hobbits already knew that he was out of his depth.  Frodo had been confident, certain that Gandalf was waiting at the Prancing Pony, ready to take over the thinking.  Merry and Pippin had the air of youngsters out on a lark.  But Sam had come along to do a job of work and knew it wasn't finished yet.

Sam had reserved his trust of Strider, even after Gandalf's letter, and in spite of the blade that was broken, and Aragorn hadn't minded that, for the Ring was a sore temptation at first -- a bane too powerful to be left in the hands of anyone silly enough to put it on as a stunt in a pub!  But as he'd come to know Frodo, he realized that Frodo hadn't lied when he'd said that the Ring slipped on his finger by accident at the Prancing Pony.  And as long as Sam stood between Strider and Frodo like a fierce kitten, Strider had been content to guide them all towards Rivendell and let Elrond decide the fate of the ring.

Loyalty, then.  First of all.

As they'd travelled towards Rivendell, he'd watched his charges.  It was Sam who guarded Frodo most carefully, Strider had realized within a day's walk of Bree, Sam who was least likely to get distracted by the chance of a mess of mushrooms or a decent night's dinner, even if it was Sam who was best suited to cooking when the chances were right.  Aragorn had thought himself not a bad camp cook, till he'd learned what hobbits could do with a brace of rabbits and a few herbs out of the grass. 

But Sam didn't expect himself to be very knowledgeable, except about plain "homely" foods, and left the planning and plotting to the others, and they in turn never seem to find it odd that Sam was dealt most of the tasks needing hands instead of head.  Still, Sam was the hobbit who turned out to have a love of words that matched Aragorn's own.  "Neekerbreekers," he'd called the small slimy crickets of Midgewater Marshes, and nevermore to the Rangers would they be known as _crithillen_.   "Ninnyhammer" and other names he had for himself, when he made small mistakes; names that the others accepted even if Strider did not.   For it hadn't taken him long to learn that Sam loved poetry and stories, learning the lines he loved best by heart in a single hearing.  That Bilbo would translate the Lay of Gilgalad had been predictable -- Bilbo was forever turning Elven songs into something a hobbit could understand -- but that Sam knew it and Frodo didn't was a revelation.  And that song about the Troll he'd sang after Weathertop still brought a smile to Aragorn's day. 

Modesty, then, and perhaps more than was needed.

Weathertop.  That had shown more sides to Sam.  Frodo was starting to grasp the larger difficulties ahead, just in getting to Rivendell, but Sam had seen the immediate problems -- whether to stay or go, and how the fire might be a disadvantage as well as a boon.  Aragorn remembered the glow of Sam's face listening to stories as they waited for moonrise, and the restlessness of his eyes, flickering from the storyteller's face to the darkness beyond the fire.  When the Riders came, it was only Sam who'd stayed on his feet, wielding brand and blade.  He'd even guarded the injured Frodo against Strider, until he was reassured, and afterward Strider had found himself turning Sam into a lieutenant of sorts for the journey, making a virtue out of Sam's willingness to let someone "wiser" do the thinking. 

A few words here, a demonstration there -- Sam was quick to pick up a wanderer's skills, and quicker to learn any new lore about plants.  He already could go quietly enough, as all the hobbits could when they tried, and he was first of the hobbits to begin practicing swinging his knife like a sword, getting used to the weight of it in silent imitation of Aragorn's morning exercise.  Aragorn wished now that he'd spent time talking of how to find water, but with the river so near, it hadn't seemed important.  He'd spent more time on scouting terrain, on paying attention to the language of the birds, showing Sam how to use the chatter of starlings to extend his own senses, and when to avoid the small creatures because other minds were using them.

Practicality.

When Glorfindel had found them, it would have been funny if it weren't so serious, the way that Sam had drawn Strider into his circle of trust and defended Frodo against the newcomer.  He'd liked Asfaloth, though, showing the great horse the same kindness that had tamed Bill the pony.  Aragorn had seen him give each of the animals a portion of his own dried fruit from dinner, murmuring encouragement to Bill, and telling Asfaloth how important it was that he be careful of Frodo.  Not once on that forced march had Sam complained on his own behalf, though he'd spoken up for Frodo and for Bill too.

Then the Riders had come.  Sam had nearly been trampled, trying to get Bill out of the way, and then he'd been dragged by the reins when the pony panicked, and it might have gone badly for him if Glorfindel had not caught them a few steps into the wood.  Merry and Pippin had dithered for a moment, but Sam hadn't, charging after Glorfindel and Aragorn still white-faced from his near escape, down toward the ford.   He'd carried a little hobbit gadget -- a tinderbox with a wheel of flint for striking sparks into pipes, that properly belonged to Frodo -- and he'd lit the fire that Strider and Glorfindel were laying before they'd finished placing the kindling; although he'd been late running with a firebrand down to the ford, having stopped to picket Bill for the pony's own safety.

Determination.

Aragorn had seen little of Sam in Rivendell at first, being absorbed in his own affairs; hearing the news and renewing old friendships.  Merry and Pippin had been more in evidence, talking to everyone and exploring any room that seemed friendly.  But Sam had generally been in Frodo's room, seeing to his master's needs.  Gandalf had asked Sam to set the Ring on the new chain and place it about Frodo's neck, Aragorn remembered now.  No one else had dared handle it, barring Bilbo, and no one was willing to ask Bilbo to take the risk.  For days Sam had stayed by Frodo's side, waiting patiently for Frodo to waken, or running small errands that Elrond or Bilbo sent him on out of kindness.  Only once had Aragorn found him down at the stables, brushing Bill, and that had been when everyone was sent away so that Elrond and Gandalf could seek out the splinter of Morgul blade without endangering others.  Sam's honest face could not hide his fear and worry, and Strider had taken pity on him and helped to tend to the pony, distracting Sam with a discussion of equine ailments to guard against.  Sam had had only a little experience with horses or ponies before coming on the journey, since neither Frodo nor Bilbo had owned one.  Merry had taught him a bit on the way, but he'd figured out most of it on his own.  "It's not hard to see what needs doing and do it," he'd told Strider, uncomfortable with praise for any kind of cleverness.  "Leastwise not with ponies."

Patience.

Sam asleep in the hall of fire at Frodo and Bilbo's feet.  Sam in the corner at the Council of Elrond, forgotten even by Aragorn, who should have known better, until he made the mistake of speaking.  Aragorn had asked Bilbo about Sam once, after the council, and Bilbo had described a small woolly-pated child who hadn't seen the point of talking until he couldn't get what he wanted by pointing, and hadn't seen the necessity of letters until he'd realized that there were stories in books, waiting for someone to read them.  "The Gaffer nearly tore his hair out, once, after Sam'd rearranged the garden labels in alphabetical order two days after all the seeds were planted," Bilbo had chuckled.  "So I took him on, and kept him out of trouble by teaching him to read until the seedlings were high enough to see the difference between hawkweed and cress.  But I didn't see as much of him as Frodo has, for Hamfast was _my_ gardener, you know.  Samwise was still a boy when I left Bag End, and had only just taken on more of the garden.  He'd always helped his father, as much as he could, but even when he was ten he would ask Frodo if he wanted help first.  And Frodo was always asking him to come along to carry the berrying basket or to hunt mushrooms."

A liegeman then, in all but name, since he was very small.

Aragorn built the picture in his head more quickly now, as he felt the outlines solidify, flitting from memory to memory. 

Sam, small and uncomfortable, waiting in the darkness of Rivendell and stroking the pony's nose as they waited for Gandalf and Elrond to set the company on their way.  Sam producing Frodo's forgotten handkerchief from his pack, and dry socks for Pippin.  Sam in Hollin, seeing the _crebain_ and remembering his lessons about birds.  Sam practicing the songs he'd learned in Rivendell, chanting the words as he walked and softly singing the lay of Luthien as he cooked the morning meal.  Sam watching as Boromir and Aragorn sparred for practice, turning his sword in his hand in imitation.  Sam in the snow on Caradhras, as miserable a hobbit as any Aragorn had yet seen, struggling to keep his eyes open in spite of the cold.  Sam resigned to going on, since Frodo wouldn't go back to Rivendell.  Sam standing against the wolves with Pippin, alight with pride and excitement for Gandalf's magic afterwards. 

Sam outside of the gates of Moria, in the foulest mood Aragorn had ever witnessed upon him.  Sending Bill away had been the one trial he had borne with truly ill-grace; for all the comments he had made about other things he'd made with his hands already turned to the task.  But Gandalf's words of protection on the pony had not consoled Sam in the least, and Merry and Pippin and Frodo had had to split the hobbits' goods and food among the packs without his assistance.   Sam racing to free Frodo from the grasp of a tentacle, when even Legolas had not yet understood the danger.  The attack of the Watcher in the Water had forced Sam to choose between Bill and Frodo, and he had wept in the darkness of Moria for failing to protect both of them.

For this was Sam too, open-hearted as a child, and fierce in defense of what and whom he loved.  Simple, in the best sense of the word.  If what Merry said were true, the only person Sam had ever successfully deceived was Frodo, and then he had managed it only for the sake of making sure that Frodo would not venture out of the Shire alone. 

Sam in the shadows of Moria, downcast like the others in the relentless darkness.  Sam fighting orcs by Balin's tomb, and running for the gates with blood weighing down his hair, and bright on his collar.  Sam with the hood of his cloak pulled up to hide his tearstreaked face after Gandalf had fallen.  He'd followed Frodo and Gimli to Mirrormere, but had nothing to say, which should have told Aragorn that his wound was grieving him too.  Sam struggling to keep up with Frodo on the run to Lothlorien, dull-eyed and pale when Aragorn and Boromir had run back to carry the two injured hobbits.  Sam drowsing on Boromir's shoulder, and Boromir talking to him to keep him awake until the wound had been seen to.  That wound had been simple to heal if ugly, just a long scrape that had loosened a flap of scalp on the side of Sam's head.  It had bled a lot, as head wounds always do, staining the back of his shirt, and Sam had spent long hours in Lothlorien trying to scrub the stain out of the cloth, quietly turning down offers of a new shirt from the Galadhrim in favor of the soft linen he'd carried and worn all the way from the Shire.  Aragorn had been grateful for the healing of Lothlorien, not only for his own grief, but for Sam and Frodo's injuries as well.  Sam lying on the grass of Lothlorien, studying the small flowers with a smile.  Sam with a grim, thoughtful face after a visit to the mirror of Galadriel that neither he nor Frodo would discuss.  Sam, red to the ears, clutching the box Galadriel had gifted him, and radiant with pleasure for her thoughtfulness.

Sam in the Elven boat.  Aragorn felt his lips curve into a smile.  Valor against Orcs was one thing, but bravery in a boat was something else again.  Rivers were meant to be walked beside, as far as Sam was concerned, and used to fill a cooking pot.  A hobbit couldn't tame a shape of wood the way he did a pony, and each morning Sam got into the boat like it was a punishment.  The only times he seemed to forget his discomfort was when he took to watching out for Gollum or Orcs, and that was exchanging one worry for another.  But in he got, since that was the way they were going, and tried not to complain.

Courage, then, and endurance.  He'd certainly needed both.

Sam explaining Frodo's dilemma to Merry and Pippin, as they waited by the fire near Rauros.  On other matters they might override him, but on reading Frodo's heart the young hobbits conceded Sam's authority, and for all that had happened elsewhere and betweentimes, Aragorn wished he'd had the sense to do the same before allowing Frodo to go off to think.  Gimli, at least, could have gone with the Ringbearers, and would have been a protection for them.  At least Frodo hadn't been able to get away from Sam.

Love. 

This then was Samwise Gamgee, as Aragorn had known him before they'd parted ways, and the trip through shadow and fire had not changed the essence of him.  


	3. The Glad Day

There were birds singing, and the scent of crushed kingsfoil, and voices in quiet colloquy just beyond the cocoon of warm blankets and soft linen that soothed his skin.

"…sometime today, I think, but not before afternoon," the voice was too low to identify, but reassuring and familiar.  "What can be healed by our arts is healing; sleep will no longer serve as well as food."

"And pap will no more serve as food once sleep is gone," Another voice and dearer, warm with pleasure.  Frodo lost the sense of the words as he sought his way out of slumber to join the conversation.  "A wakeful hobbit is a hungry hobbit.  Warn the cooks."

"That, at least, I can do before another petitioner interrupts.  Something light at first -- a feast goes ill on a belly long empty."   

"My lord," another voice, breathless with hurry.  "A messenger has come from Cair Andros."

"Take him to the Council tent and fetch Prince Imrahil and King Eomer.  I'll be there shortly." 

"Yes, my lord."  Clumsy Man feet on soft grass, running away.

"You see, Mithrandir?  Stay you here and keep watch in my place, and one of us at least will find the rest that is meant to come with peace!"

Mithrandir?  But that was the name that the elves used to call Gandalf.  Frodo opened his eyes.

A tall white figure was standing nearby among the birches and the face was Gandalf's but he was brighter and clearer than Frodo remembered, and with a sudden clarity of eye, Frodo understood much beyond explanation.  "You've changed," was all he could put into words.  And Gandalf turned and smiled.

But with words came memory and Frodo's heart cried out, for it wasn't Gandalf he last remembered smiling at him.  "Sam!" he called, looking past the wizard for another face and not finding it.  "Where's Sam?" And he was afraid, suddenly, that being with Gandalf meant that he had gone someplace where Sam could not follow.

But Gandalf only laughed and settled on a chair by the bed, "Beside you, Frodo," he said, looking past Frodo with a nod.  "Just as he was when we found you."

Frodo sat up and turned to look, and there indeed was Sam, asleep, and Frodo's heart was wrung in two, for joy at the sight of Sam's chest rising and falling with soft breaths, and for sorrow at the lines of care that had been molded into the trusting face that would never seem young again.  "He's cleaner than he was then," Frodo observed softly, leaning back into the hand that Gandalf had place on his shoulder.  And that was mixed joy too, for the filth of Mordor had disguised the shadows that hunger had put in Sam's face and now Frodo saw the gauntness that lack had caused, and the marks that dirt had hidden.  And yet the long deep cut on Sam's forehead was almost healed, and there were fresh scars on the backs of his hands.

"How long have we been here?" he asked Gandalf, "and how did we come?"

"Fourteen days," Gandalf replied, "and the Eagles found you, just as you fell unconscious on the shoulder of Orodruin.  But of Gollum there was no sign."

"He slipped and fell," Frodo said, not taking his eyes off Sam, for he did not wish to face Gandalf's eyes as he confessed.  "Fell into the fires, with It, once he'd bitten off my finger.  I failed, Gandalf," he admitted in a low voice.  "I could not cast it in, and so I tried to claim it."

"So I guessed, when I saw your injury," Gandalf said, but he didn't sound angry.  "But you did not wholly fail.  Had you not brought the Ring to the edge of the fire, no mischance on Gollum's part would have mattered."

"I couldn't even have managed that much," Frodo said.  "Not without Sam.  He carried me and the Ring right up the mountainside, when it was so heavy I could barely lift my head, and how he managed it I cannot guess.  There's scarce enough left of him to bear his own burdens.  I should have seen to him, not been so quick to believe when he told me that he'd eaten or had his drink while I slept.  But I could not see him, Gandalf, I couldn't.  All I could see was the wheel of fire."  And he burst into tears, and Gandalf gathered him up into his cloak and lap and there let him weep away the fear and longing and sorrow. 

"There is less of you than once there was, Frodo Baggins," Gandalf said, producing a handkerchief as the storm abated.  "And more to Samwise Gamgee than eyes can see.  It was duty that made you carry the Ring, and love that bade Sam carry the Ringbearer, and I know which of the two is the stronger."

Frodo turned his head, to be certain that Gandalf was listening, "Didn't I talk in my sleep this time?" he asked, remembering that awakening in Rivendell long months ago.  "Sam is a Ringbearer too, Gandalf.  He kept it from the Orcs when Shelob struck me with her poison.  He thought I was dead, and he must go on alone to see the task fulfilled."

"Indeed I learned some things, from you and from Sam too, as you slept," Gandalf said, helping Frodo settle back onto the bed.  "And I know that once he learned you were alive he turned back to rescue you, and the peril of the Quest meant less to him than to keep you from the torments of the Enemy.  I do not speak less of Sam when I say that he could not have borne the Ring so far as Frodo of the Shire.  And nor do I speak less of Frodo when I say that to destroy the Ring was a task he could not have done alone.  I am glad that you let Sam come with you at the last."

"But I should have taken better care of him, if I let him come at all," Frodo said.  "What would the Gaffer say if he could see his son now?"

"That the lad is healing, and stronger than he was even a day ago, and that there are few hurts left to him that will not be mended by time and food," Gandalf said.  "Take heart, Frodo, for by the time he wakes, Sam's injuries will grieve him little, and to find you well and alive is all I expect he'll wish."

A memory struck Frodo then, of Sam's hoarse voice trying to comfort him at the end of all things. "I can think of one other wish," he said, "he spoke of it, once or twice.  Sam loves tales, you know, and he wondered how ours would sound, all sung out proper or chanted in rhyme.  'Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom,' he called it at the last, when there was nothing left in the world to make us think that we would ever hear it."  He smiled at Gandalf, pleased suddenly by the thought of a small thing he could do.  "I'm not as good a poet as Bilbo, but if someone could help me write it, maybe we could find some words for Sam." 

And Gandalf met his smile with a smile of his own.  "There is a bard from Minas Anor who has pestered me for days, wanting details to go into his lay of the Great War and how it was won beyond all chance of hope.  Timrithell is his name, and if you've the patience to tell him what he wants to know you'll find that he spins verses as other folk spin wool and flax."

Gandalf left Frodo to break his fast with a little wine and porridge, but returned in a few minutes with a tall Man carrying a sheaf of paper and a harp, who limped a little as he entered the glade and made a bow.

"Mithrandir tells me I might be of service?" he said, with a diffidence that surprised Frodo. 

"Yes, if you will.  Gandalf tells me that you are a poet."

Timrithell flushed with pleasure and bowed again.  "Gandalf is kind.  It has been my happy duty to make songs for the Lord of the City since I came to manhood."  He smiled shyly.  "I would rather wield my pen than a sword."

"Which is why he brought a harp to the last battle," Gandalf interjected, steering the minstrel to a chair.  "And we are fortunate that he took that Orc arrow in the leg and not his hands."   Having settled the Man on one side of the table and seeing that Frodo was served another bowl of porridge he stood back.  "I have told Timrithell a great deal of what happened before you reached the Dimrill Dale, and others have told him the tale as far as Rauros, and of your meeting with Lord Faramir in Ithilien.  Some he knows of what happened after, from what I gleaned of your dreams, but it is scant bones.  You two talk, and I will go and watch Samwise, and warn you if he begins to waken."

Timrithell looked after the wizard with a question in his eyes and Frodo laughed.  "I want to surprise Sam with your song," he said.  "He loves stories, you see."

Timrithell got out his inkpot and pen.  "Tell me about Sam," he said.

*****

"The things Sam carried," Frodo laughed, "my inkpot and pen, and a little silver mathom that hid a store of herbs inside the shape of an acorn.  Little things I wouldn't have thought to bring, like powder to soothe chafing and an ointment for what the Gaffer calls "sore bones".  But farthest of all he carried his pots and cooking things, and a little box of salt, in case we found something to cook.  And we did once, or Smeagol did for us."

"What did he find?"  Timrithell asked, making notes.

"Rabbits.  And Sam made rabbit stew.  I woke to find it ready, and we ate from the pot, taking turns.  It was the best meal I'd had since we left the others." He smiled now, finding the taste more clearly in memory than he'd known it at the time.  "That was the day we saw the Oliphaunt, and Captain Faramir's men found us."

"Lord Faramir is Steward now, in Minas Anor," Timrithell said, "And we are glad of it.  But what is an Oliphaunt?"

"Mumakil you call them," Gandalf interjected from his place by the bed.

"Ah, I know the day, then.  Damrod has told me that he stayed with you and your servant while the Company ambushed the Southrons.  And they took you to Henneth Annun until Lord Faramir could decide how to deal with you.  What happened to Sam's cooking pots?"

"He had to give them up, near the end.  The Ring was growing heavier, and I couldn't bear it and the orc gear I carried too.  We had crossed the road, and there was only the barren land between us and Mt. Doom, but I couldn't see how we could possible manage.  But Sam said we should rid ourselves of all we didn't need and try.  It was the first time I think he realized...or admitted... that there wouldn't be any road back."  Frodo closed his eyes against the memory.  "He put his cooking things in a crevasse, so Gollum wouldn't mess with them.  They're probably melted by the lava from the mountain now."

"How many days was that before you reached the mountain?"

"Three.  And it had been a full day before that since we'd last found water, and that was only a bit at the bottom of an orc cistern by the road." He frowned, trying to remember.  "And the orc cistern was the last place where I'm certain Sam had a drink at all.  We had only one water bottle between us.  And I remember being terribly thirsty, and Sam giving me a mouthful of water, two and even three days after we found it.  So he must have gone without.  But I didn't notice then, not really.  The wheel of fire was all I could see, and its weight was all I could bear."  He rubbed at his neck, where the marks of the chain had turned to a fretwork of narrow scars.

"Maybe it only seemed like three days," Timrithell suggested gently.

"No.  We left the things by the road, and walked, and that was one day, and that night was cold, because we had thrown away the blankets.  And the next day we were closer to the mountain and the air was foul, and made us dizzy, but we reached the foot of it and stopped because it was too dark to see.  And that morning, I couldn't get up.  I couldn't do more than crawl, but somehow Sam found the strength to carry me.  Carry me and the Ring with me."  Frodo looked over to the bed.  "You will put that part in, won't you?  Because I don't know how he did it.  Halfway up the mountain, or more, he carried me, until we were above the foul air and I could breathe a little.  And as we rested the Eye fell upon us, and I would have put the Ring on and betrayed us to Sauron if Sam hadn't taken my hands in his and carried me some more."

"Did he carry you all the way to the Cracks of Doom?"

"No.  Smeagol attacked, trying to get the Ring.  I don't think I could have moved if he hadn't tried to take it from me, but by then I was more than half mad with desire for it.  If I'd had a weapon I might have killed him, and as it was I cast him down, and left him for Sam to deal with, knowing that Sam hated Gollum, and had a sword."  Frodo shook his head.  "I don't know why he didn't kill Gollum, at the last -- when he wakes you'll have to ask him if you want to know -- but it's a good thing he didn't."

"Why is that?" Timrithell asked softly when Frodo didn't go on.

Frodo took a deep breath.  "Because the Ring won, at the very last, or I lost.  I went on into the mountain along a path that leads you to its heart, but when I looked down into the fire I was caught between desires.  Sam followed me in, and when I heard his voice I chose.  But even as I put on the ring, Gollum came behind Sam and struck him to the ground, giving him that great cut on his head, and leaped to attack me, finding me even though I was invisible."

"And I was fighting the Ring too, as well as Gollum, trying to master the power of it, and could not do both well, so Gollum bit off my finger, and got the Ring, but in his very moment of happiness, his joy betrayed him, and he stepped off the edge of the path and fell."

"And Sam came, and took me out of the mountain, and I felt the Ring melt away, and my burden with it, and there we stood at the end of all things," he smiled now, remembering, the relief and joy of that moment.  "And Sam still wanted to go away from the worst of it, even though there was no chance of surviving and I went with him, to make him happy, and to guide him because the blood was in his eyes."

Timrithell nodded, making notes with his eyes carefully on the paper until Frodo spoke again.  "When you sing of Gollum, you should call him by his right name.   Smeagol he was, before the Ring came to him, and for a while to me as well, until desire for the Ring overcame him."

"Smeagol?" Timrithell said.  "Yes, Mithrandir has told me part of that tale."

"Slinker and Stinker, Sam called him, depending on whether the Smeagol side or Gollum was strongest.  He never trusted him wholly, and he was right not to."

"And why is that?"

"Do you know Cirith Ungol?" Frodo asked.

"It has an evil name," Timrithell said.  "Guarded by orcs, and worse than orcs – although what is worse the tales do not say."

"Her name is Shelob," Frodo whispered, rubbing at the place where her sting had pierced him.  "A spider, gorged with prey until she has grown to hideous size.  Gollum led us to her lair, knowing she would kill us, and pay no mind to what we carried.  He wanted the Ring."

"Shelob?" Timrithell had heard the name, it was plain, for he paled.  "But that is an evil from the oldest tales we know.  How did you get away?"

"I didn't," Frodo said.  "It was Sam who fought her, and drove her off.  Killed her perhaps – for the sleeves of his shirt were green and stiff with her blood when he found me, prisoner to the Orcs."

"I had dropped Sting, the sword that Bilbo carried and gave to me when we began, and Sam found it on the ground.  It cut her webs, when Sam's sword would not, and cut her too, when she tried to crush Sam under her.  And he used Galadrial's star glass.  She didn't like the light.  I didn't see any of this mind, and Sam told me the story in few words.  I was unconscious.  'Limp as boned fish,' I was told." 

"Sam thought I was dead, so he laid his old sword by me.   And then he took the Ring, to keep the Orcs from finding it, and go on to the Cracks of Doom alone."  Frodo met the minstrel's eyes.  "You must put that in the story.  Sam was a Ringbearer, and he did what I could not have done.  Within Mordor, with the Ring heavy on him, and promising him glory and power, he gave it away.  He gave it back to me, when he rescued me from the tower, and hesitated no more than a breath or two."

"When was this?  In the tower where you were prisoner?"

"I'm sorry – I'm not telling any of it order, am I?"  Frodo ran his hands over his face.  "Yes.  In the tower.  And I called him a thief, for wanting to help me with my burden."  The memory was bitter.  

"You tire, Ringbearer," Timrithell said, beginning to gather his things.  "I should let you rest."

"No," Frodo stopped him.  "I will rest, in a little while.  But you must understand that once we reached Mordor, the quest was all Sam's doing.  I knew nothing but torment and weariness; the Wheel of Fire, and the Mountain where I might find rest.  If I ate, or slept, or drank it was at Sam's bidding.  He found the water.  He saved us when we were mistaken for Orc folk and driven to the crossroads.  He chose our paths.  He never stopped believing that we would succeed."

"And so I will say, in my song," Timrithell promised.   "Harthad Uluithiad I shall name him.  Hope Unquenchable."

Frodo smiled, for Timrithell's eyes were shining with admiration when he looked to the still sleeping Sam.  "He doesn't speak much Elvish," he said.  "Call him Samwise the Brave; that he'll understand."  Frodo sighed, letting the tiredness settle into his shoulders again.  But it was a good tiredness this time, such as he had not known since the Shire, the tiredness of a task completed and a warm bed waiting.

"Come Frodo," Gandalf rose from his chair and came to the table.  "If Timrithell has more questions he can bring them to me.  You stay by Sam." 

******

Sam was laughing.  Frodo listened a little longer, to be certain that he wasn't dreaming.

"I feel like spring after winter, and sun on the leaves; and like trumpets and harps and all the songs I have ever heard!"   Sam's voice, and then his tone changed to concern.  "But how's Mr. Frodo?" he said.  "Isn't it a shame about his poor hand?  But I hope he's all right otherwise.  He's had a cruel time."  And Frodo opened his eyes and sat up lest Sam should worry overmuch.

"Yes, I'm all right otherwise," he said, laughing with delight at the sight of Sam standing straight and shining on the grass.  The wound on his head was healed now, leaving only a pale scar; and his face, alight with unrestrained happiness, looked young again.   "I fell asleep again waiting for you, Sam, you sleepyhead.  I was awake early this morning, and now it must be nearly noon."

"Noon?" Sam asked, "Noon of what day?"

Frodo let Gandalf answer Sam's questions, for his ears caught soft voices nearby saying "He's awake," and "Tell the king."  He wondered if the King were Aragorn, come at last into his inheritance, and by what Gandalf was saying about crowning it probably was.

"But what shall we wear?" Sam asked, and Frodo wondered too.  They couldn't go to see a king in nothing but soft shirts, and the only other clothes he saw on the grass were the ones he'd hoped never to see again.

"The clothes that you wore on your way to Mordor," Gandalf said, catching Frodo's eye, and nodding acknowledgement of Frodo's reluctance to don those things again, "Even the orc-rags that you bore in the black land, Frodo, shall be preserved.  No silks and linens, nor any armor or heraldry could be more honorable.  But later I will find some other clothes perhaps."

And he held up his hands, and one shone with light, and Frodo's protests died aborning.  "What have you got there?" he cried.  "Can it be -- ?"

"Yes," said Gandalf gently. "I have brought your two treasures.  They were found on Sam when you were rescued; the Lady Galadriel's gifts: your glass, Frodo; and your box, Sam.  You will be glad to have these safe again."

"Oh, Mr. Gandalf, sir," Sam breathed, taking the box in both hands.  "Thank you."

"Thank _you_, Sam," Frodo said, accepting the star-glass and holding it so tight that the light of it showed red through his fingers.  "I am glad not to have lost the light of Elbereth."

Sam blushed.  "You gave it to me for safekeeping, Mr. Frodo.  I'd've been ashamed to lose it for you."

Frodo didn't know quite what to say to that, and was grateful when Gandalf interrupted.    "Here are baths," the wizard said, "and when you've washed, a bit of luncheon for you."

"Baths!" cried Frodo, jumping out of bed, and "Luncheon!" cried Sam, and then their eyes met and they laughed together for pure joy.

"I hope the water's hot!"  Sam said, and Gandalf laughed and stroked his beard.  "I am a wizard you know," he chuckled.  Then he began to sing, "_Sing hey for a bath at the close of day, that washes the weary mud away..."  _

It was so funny to hear Bilbo's bath song sung in that deep voice, that Frodo and Sam had to catch their breaths before they could join him at the last line of the verse.  "_O! Water Hot is a noble thing!"  _

****

It was some comfort to find that their Mordor clothes had been well washed, and more comfort to eat the simple meal that Gandalf set before them.  All of Sam's questions were for Gandalf, and how he had survived the fall in Moria, and Frodo was content to listen to the answers.  It was strange to see Gandalf in white, and yet Frodo found that he sometimes glimpsed Gandalf brighter still, like a vision of light from a star that had come to touch the ground for a time.  Frodo rubbed at the place where his finger had been, and chided himself for feeling any scrap of sorrow on his own account.   Others had lost more than he had.

And when they were fed and their heads and toes were brushed, Gandalf said "Follow me," and led them out into the waiting world.

Frodo expected only to be taken quietly to Aragorn, and what Sam had expected he never found out.   The good green grass and tall trees in flower were a delight to behold, but when they came to the tall armored men who bowed to them Frodo realized that Gandalf had no intention of taking them quietly anywhere.  He hesitated, but one of the Men had taken up a trumpet to announce them. 

 Sam looked as uncertain as Frodo felt.   Frodo looked to Gandalf, but Gandalf only smiled and nodded, and the memory of Timrithell and his song came into Frodo's head and he knew that he'd have to take Sam with him, or they'd not go another step.  He reached out a hand, and Sam took it and they walked forward through an aisle of trees until they came to a wide green land and ranks and ranks of tall Men bearing many devices.  And as the shouts went up, Frodo blessed Gandalf, for every cry in every tongue he knew was for Samwise too.

They came to three tall seats built of green turves, and on the highest there was Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and his face was full of gladness.  He stood, and Frodo ran to him, feeling Sam follow close behind. 

"Well, if this isn't the crown of all!"  Sam said.  "Strider, or I'm still asleep!"  But Frodo only looked up into the proud grey eyes and saw again the light he had seen as they passed between the Argonath on the river.

Aragorn smiled at both of them.  "Yes, Sam.  Strider," he said. "It is a long way, is it not, from Bree, where you did not like the look of me?"  Aragorn spoke softly, for only Sam and Frodo to hear.  He knelt, taking each of them by the hand.  "A long way for us all, but yours has been the darkest road."

He rose and took them to the throne, picking up Frodo first, and then Sam, and setting them high, where they could see out over all the gathered companies, and turned to call out, "Praise them with great praise!" one more time and raise the glad shout.

Then Timrithell stepped forward, and made his bow, and begged leave to sing, and Sam stood up and clapped his hands like a small child at a birthday party when the presents are ready to be handed out.  "O great glory and splendour!" he cried out.  "And all my wishes have come true!"  And he burst into tears. 

And many of the host laughed and wept and Aragorn among them, even as he nodded permission to the minstrel to begin.   Frodo gathered Sam to him, holding him in the curve of his arms as Sam had once held him in the dark of Moria; and Sam quieted his tears and leaned against his master to listen as sweet words were spun around the bitter story. 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters are Tolkien's, but much gratitude is given to the movie-folks for putting images in my head and inciting me. ***Once Sam wakes up, I've used many many lines and bits of description from Tolkien, particularly in dialogue. And if you haven't already read the books and don't know which lines are his and which are not then shoo! Get thee hence to a library!
> 
> Medical disclaimer (since I've seen so many of them!) : I'm not even trying to be accurate, darlings, but if Viggo Mortensen wants to come and sprinkle some athelas water around me I'm sure I'll perk up nicely too.


End file.
